


Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps)

by berrevy



Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: Fluff and Humour, M/M, Mild Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Sexual Content, POV Sander Driesen, References to MI, Teasing, an absolute party mix of halloween clichés, brief mention of death, robbe doesn't scare easy, sander's still blonde and sings a lot, seriously I packed as many in there as possible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:13:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27388528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berrevy/pseuds/berrevy
Summary: Robbe bites down on his lip, shaking his head. “You make a habit of luring boys into your lair?”“Only the pretty ones. Don’t worry, schatje, there’s nothing to be afraid of. And if there is,” Sander shrugs, taking a few more steps backwards, “I’ll protect you.”(aka the boys go on their own private Halloween adventure)
Relationships: Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Comments: 56
Kudos: 125





	Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps)

**Author's Note:**

> sooo this was supposed to be set a couple days before Halloween, but I’m a painfully slow writer so here it is over a week late
> 
> shockingly, the title is a Bowie song. and the full fic playlist (or my excuse to obnoxiously project my music taste onto Sander) is [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLVAFzs1WJ6fTkXDEM8Ggrl2tiNO4n7Uzw) for anyone who fancies a listen

*

“Hold still.”

It’s the third time he’s had to ask and they’ve barely even started. Robbe keeps wriggling about under his brush, rocking and fidgeting and shifting his weight on the spot. They’re sat cross-legged opposite each other, but Sander’s starting to think he should’ve just planted himself right in Robbe’s lap, just to keep him down.

Reloading his brush, Sander instead scoots forward on the floor, angles his knee so that it’s resting right on top of Robbe’s. He leans his weight into it with a smirk, holding him in place, and Robbe breathes a small _sorry_ under his breath.

There are paints and palettes scattered all around them, some rooted out from years ago and some on loan from friends at the Academie. It’s sort of a trial run; he’s volunteered himself for some face-painting at the party this weekend, and has given himself a few days to try out some ideas. Eager to help as always, Robbe had stepped up as test dummy. The thing is, Sander suspects he likes the idea of modelling more than the actual practice.

As if to prove him right, Robbe entire face scrunches up as soon as the brush gets too close to his eyes.

“Relax, schat, I’m not gonna hurt you,” Sander says, soft and amused, fingers hovering at Robbe’s jaw as he tries again.

“I know, I know. Just feels weird.”

Another little wince. One of Robbe’s hands strays from his lap, bunching in the old sheet Sander’s thrown down to protect his bedroom floor - his mum had made it pretty clear she’d kill him otherwise, which he admits is fair enough. Sander thinks he could probably track everything he’s ever painted by the stains speckled across his carpet.

“Any more ideas for your costume?”

Sander _hmms_ distractedly, flicks his wrist into the curves of Robbe’s dimples; tiny, faint brackets either side of his mouth.

“A couple. Keep your mouth closed a sec?”

“Mmm.” Robbe complies, but it doesn’t last long. “Promise you’re not making me look stupid?”

He mutters it out the side of his mouth, throwing the last stroke off by a fraction, and Sander quickly wets a finger, frowning down his nose as he corrects it. Once he’s happy, he draws back, uses the blunt end of his brush to trace a small mark across his chest.

“Cross my heart. Don’t you trust me?”

Robbe casts his eyes downwards with a soft huff. His lashes throw inky shadows against his cheeks, stretching longer under the desk lamp angled towards him, and Sander takes a mental snapshot, files it away for later.

“Course,” he says quietly, nudging his knee up against Sander’s.

Sander fires him a wink as he leans in again, lifts his hand to pebble a series of grey dots near his hairline. Almost immediately, Robbe starts vibrating like he’s trying to suppress laughter. Sander arches a brow, then just shakes his head and tries again.

“Alleeee,” Robbe finally giggles, one shoulder rolling up to his ear.

“Okay, okay, so _sensitive_.”

Sander catches Robbe’s eye for a brief, loaded moment, sends him the kind of knowing smirk that usually means he’s about to drop whatever he’s doing and move on to something better.

“I thought you liked that,” Robbe says, biting down on a returning grin as he gives him a quick once over.

For a moment Sander lets himself be distracted, zeroes in on the pale indent of Robbe’s teeth against his lip, but he makes a real effort to shake it off. Once his mind goes down that route it’s pretty hard to stop it.

“Strictly during sex. Thankfully, I am a professional,” Sander says, all business, and jabs the brush through the air at Robbe, who just laughs.

There’s about a fifteen minute period then where Sander catches a good rhythm and works himself into a groove, ideas coming fast and flowing straight down his arm. Even Robbe seems to have settled into it, finally just sitting there, calm and in one place as Sander works away at him.

Sander swirls his brush in a large pad of metallic gold, murmurs, “Close your eyes again,” and Robbe does, obediently. Using his other hand, he pulls back the bristles and flicks it at the tops of Robbe’s cheeks, glitter speckling across his face in little clusters. He likes that, so he loads up some more and drags the colour along Robbe’s jawline, down the sides of nose, gently carves it into the hollows of his cheekbones, gilding the outline of him as Stevie Nicks’ worn-leather voice fades away in the background, and Talking Heads kick in with a steady thump of a baseline.

Sander’s Halloween playlist is one of his best, lovingly crafted over the years and packed full of all his favourites - which is essentially anything dark or obscure pre-1990, save for that Backstreet Boys one that he loves unironically and without shame. If only for the music, it’s his favourite time of year.

Robbe’s cracked open one eye and is watching amusedly as Sander bops his head, singing along under his breath as he works.

“Can’t sleep ‘cause my bed’s on fire, don’t touch me I’m a real live wire-” Sander drops his hands, head tilting back as he sings louder, “ _Psycho killer-_ ”

“Qu’est-ce que c’est,” Robbe finishes along with him, grinning, always proud of himself for being able to join in.

This one’s been one of Sander’s favourites lately, and as with any song Sander likes he’s played it to death, so Robbe’s become familiar with it by extension. He’s a fast learner anyway, always curious, always paying close attention to whatever catches Sander’s imagination like that, pulls that spark out of him.

Sander reaches for his phone to turn up the volume, and Robbe uses the small window to take a sip of his beer.

“You almost done?” he asks.

Sander does the same, nodding as he swallows. Just for tonight, he’s making an exception and letting himself join in, though he’s set a strict limit at two.

“Soon,” he says.

“When are you talking me to this mystery spot?”

Sander grins over the lip of his bottle, repeats, “Soon.”

“Always so mysterious,” Robbe says, voice lilting, his head tipping to one side then the other, weighted like a metronome. It tends to do that when he’s animated, or nervous, or has a beer or two in him.

“You know me.”

Sander spikes his eyebrows and takes another swig; a stray dribble runs down the neck of the bottle and over his hand, and he sucks a knuckle into his mouth absently. There’s a small cough across from him, from where Robbe seems to have had trouble swallowing. Sander watches him grimacing and patting his chest, suddenly hawk-eyed.

He decides then that maybe he doesn’t mind getting a little distracted, smiles slow and deliberate with his finger still curled against his mouth. In a series of measured movements, he places down his beer, picks up his brush and edges closer.

“Good to go again?” he says, soft, and watches Robbe’s throat move as he swallows, his eyes still slightly misty.

“Sure.”

With just a small amount of water on the brush, Sander trails it in a featherlight touch against the steep dip of Robbe’s cupid’s bow, and then takes it away, Robbe’s eyes fluttering as he does. He coats the tip in black, and drags one stark line straight down, right against the pink plushness of his bottom lip, and then leans in further, purses his own lips to blow it dry.

Robbe starts to shift in place, shoulders rolling back as he straightens up.

“You’re twitching again,” Sander chides gently.

“Okay,” Robbe rolls his eyes half-heartedly, more for show than anything, and Sander’s lips curve as he leans in closer again and readies his painting hand.

“Okay,” he says, voice dropping a touch lower. “Now be good.”

It’s a cheap shot, and as soon as it’s out of his mouth Robbe’s eyes snap to his, narrowing slightly.

“That’s not fair.”

“What,” Sander says innocently, busies himself with flicking a few strokes near Robbe’s temple.

“Yeah, ‘what’,” Robbe mimics with a small tweak of his chin, “You can’t tell me not to move and then say shit like that.”

“Don’t move your chin,” Sander says. He presses his tongue against the back of his teeth, trying very hard to contain a full blown grin. “And I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

With one finger to Robbe’s jawline, Sander tilts his head to the side, pretending to get a better look at his work. Robbe goes easy enough but his eyes slide sidewards as he moves, glued to Sander the whole time.

“You’re a bad actor,” he says, one side of his mouth starting to curl, and Sander swipes at it lightly with a fingertip, snuffs it away. Robbe quickly rolls his lips inwards, then purses them once, his eyes flicking to Sander’s finger and away again.

“And you,” Sander dips his brush tip into the water pot without looking, brings it back up to thin a too-dark stroke near the swell of Robbe’s chin, “are being much better behaved. Look how much progress I can make when you do as you’re told.”

He hits the jackpot with that one. It’s like Robbe’s short-circuited for a second, his expression so goddamn satisfying that Sander’s fingers itch for his camera. It’s thrown somewhere across his bed, and Robbe’d definitely kill him for it, so he settles for another mental snapshot. They usually work as well as the real thing anyway - one of those rare things he can actually thank his brain for.

“Sander,” he manages finally, “come _on_.”

“Whaaat,” Sander says, throwing in a sympathetic pout to really twist the knife. “It’s not my fault you find me so distracting. Also how dare you, I am an incredible actor.”

The exasperation on Robbe’s face falls into something a bit mellower, maybe even a little sly as he leans back on his palms, angling away from him.

“Sander. I know it’s Halloween and we’re all pretending to be something we’re not, but that’s a stretch, even for you.”

“Bullshit,” Sander says instantly, shuffling right back into Robbe’s space and peering in at him with his elbows on his knees, shamelessly enjoying every second of this. “Di Caprio told me himself, he called me up and said ‘Sander, you are a much better actor than I am, I will never be as good as you so I’m going to retire. Also I’m really ugly and twice Robbe’s age and he’s so lucky to have someone as young, hot and talented as you to-’”

A gentle shove at his shoulders cuts him off abruptly - the usual sign he’s hit Robbe’s breaking point, or that Robbe doesn’t know how else to shut him up. Sander makes a show of covering the receiver of the air phone he has held by his head, widening his eyes like he’s offended.

“Rude. He had so much more to tell me about how ugly he is.”

He watches that one land, feeling like he’s about to explode if he keeps the stopper on his laughter any longer. And then, like a small animal about to pounce, Robbe reels back, exhales forcefully through his nose and launches himself forward. Suddenly he’s everywhere in Sander’s space, grasping and nipping and pushing at him, and Sander’s just openly laughing now, letting himself topple backwards until he hits the ground with a soft _oof_.

Not letting up for a second, Robbe clambers on top of him, pawing at his chest and finding all the soft places to dig in his fingers, one knee on either side of Sander’s hips to lock him in place.

“You just-” Sander pants, writhing about on the floor, still giggling helplessly, “-just want me to dress up like fuckin’ Romeo don’t you-”

“Aaaargh!” Robbe growls, doubling down on him with his weight, and if there’s a better sound Sander hasn’t heard it.

He makes a half-hearted attempt to lift himself but every time he tries to push up, Robbe pushes him right back down, and they struggle like that for a moment before Robbe finally comes out on top, with both palms splayed wide on his chest and a victorious, devastating little smile on his face. He glares down challengingly, his eyes gone that deep black-brown that makes a mess of Sander’s insides, and Sander feels shivery and overwrought, like his senses have coiled up so sharp they can only take in so much at once. He knows his mind will sift through the details later, sorting it all so that nothing gets lost - the hair falling dark around Robbe’s face, the quick staccato of his breath, the sheen of sweat caught at the base of his throat and the glint of his pendant dangling between them.

Sander stares back up at him, his laughter dwindling off into nothing, and runs his hands up Robbe’s arms to rest at his shoulders.

“You know I’m stronger than you,” Robbe teases, head tipping again, mentronoming. Sander imagines he could keep time by it, smiles dopey and open-mouthed at the thought as his heart thuds up against his ribcage, beat after beat.

“Hmm,” he agrees, thumbing gently at Robbe’s biceps. “And you know I’m always two steps ahead. I’ve got you right where I want you, IJzermans.”

He has no problem admitting the lengths he’ll go to to end up pinned underneath Robbe.

“You’re such-” Robbe laughs, leaning forward and pressing his weight deeper into Sander’s chest, “-a _dick_.”

Sander doesn’t miss a beat. “Aww, Robbe, but you love dick.”

Robbe’s eyes bulge wide, cheeks pinking up even under the paint, and Sander can’t help himself; he reaches mindlessly to tug him down, angles his mouth up like an offering, but Robbe won’t take the bait. He quickly snatches Sander’s hands, entwining their fingers and once again pushing down just as Sander pushes up. All that pent up energy is finally sparking out of him, practically Catherine-wheeling off his skin, and he’s wriggling around constantly, the bulk of his weight seated right in Sander’s crotch.

Brows knitting together, Sander breathes, “Wait, wait, truce,” as he feels himself start to respond, feels the hot, sudden spill of it way down low in his belly, body charging two steps ahead of his brain as always.

He blows out a long exhale and laughs weakly at the end, trying to control himself. His cheeks are burning and he knows his hair’s a mess, falling into his eyes and sticking up at the back where it’s rubbed against the ground. The neck of his shirt’s been dragged down at an angle, baring his collarbone and part of his chest, and he can feel the heat of Robbe’s eyes on him, unblinking, darting all over.

“Amai,” Sander says, “if this is how you get when you sit still for more than ten minutes, we really need to try meditation.”

Still panting, Robbe slows down, but keeps rocking just a little as if on autopilot.

“Wha…what?” he frowns.

Lips twitching, Sander shoots a pointed look down to where they’re pressed up against each other, watches his face fall into realisation. He’s pretty certain that Robbe can feel him now.

“Oh.”

Slowly, Sander pries his fingers from Robbe’s grasp and lets one hand fall down to rest at his hip, thumb slipping up under the hem of his shirt to meet skin. He wants so badly to move, but he tenses up all over, holding himself totally still just in case it was too swift a gear change for Robbe. He takes his usual approach and tests out a joke, just to double check.

“So this is your payback, huh? Giving me a boner?”

Robbe laughs through his nose - just once, very softly - and looks down again like he’s considering something.

“Oooh ho, what’s that look?”

“Payback,” Robbe says, a subtle tremor of malice in his voice that doesn’t help Sander keep a grip on himself at all. “Wasn’t that what you said?”

With that he shifts, testingly, and Sander feels his thighs and stomach clench all at once, teeth gritting as his body intuitively arches upwards.

The second time, Robbe’s hip roll is more deliberate, the third time firmer and surer again, and Sander’s head lifts off the ground, muscles cording in his neck, his mouth just starting to fall silently open when Robbe stops abruptly.

“Don’t we have to go soon?” he asks, blinking down at Sander like he’s genuinely curious, and Sander could _cry_.

He lets his head thump back to the ground with a groan, slaps a hand over his face.

“Evil,” he says, half-muffled under his palm. “You’re evil.”

The way Robbe cackles in response doesn’t do much to convince him otherwise. But it’s not long before he smooths a sympathetic hand down Sander’s chest, _awwing_ as he backs off with the pressure a little. Even if it’s just playacting, Robbe can never see him sad for too long.

“Ok, ok, truce. You want me to make it go away, do a scary face?”

Sander splits his fingers just in time to catch Robbe jutting out his chin, brow furrowed and hands scratching at the air, curled claw-like by his head. He snorts before he can stop himself, and Robbe’s face melts back into something more human, speckled-gold bursting up like fireworks on his cheeks as they curve into a triumphant smile.

“Y’know,” Sander says conversationally, like he’s not still half-hard in his jeans, “you ruin the effect by being so cute.” He lets out a big, theatrical sigh, taking his hand from his face and throwing it above his head. “All that work and I still couldn’t cover up that angel face.”

Robbe swivels his eyes up to the ceiling, still smiling, and reaches down to press an affectionate pinch to Sander’s side with his thumb and forefinger.

“Always the bleeding heart, Driesen.”

Suddenly Robbe’s eyes widen with excitement, and Sander can almost see the lightbulb pinging above his head.

“Hey, maybe that’s what you could be! Like a poet, but with your heart literally hanging out,” he grabs his own shirt and pulls a handful outwards as if to demonstrate. “You could do all that shit with goo and mashed up paper couldn’t you?”

“Dunno,” Sander shrugs, hands now resting on Robbe’s thighs, “never tried it before.”

“You could do it,” Robbe repeats, nodding affirmatively, “You can do that stuff with your eyes closed.”

Sander feels himself sink further into the carpet, heavy and warm. When Robbe throws that kind of thing at him it tends to stick, like something magnetised, adding weight to his body.

He thinks about voicing the thought, but instead just smiles up at him, blinking softly and watching as he turns his ear towards the music.

“Hey I recognise this one, you played it before.”

Robbe starts to ease off him but Sander doesn’t feel like moving just yet. He could quite happily make a home here on his old paint-spattered sheet, with Robbe straddling him and Tom Waits growling away about daggers and bones in the background.

“He sounds like he’s eaten a pack of cigarettes,” Robbe says, reaching down to fix the neck of Sander’s shirt for him.

“That’s the appeal,” Sander says evenly. “It’s sexy.”

“Jesus…what is it with you and old singer dudes.”

The look on Robbe’s face is completely bewildered, and Sander just rasps out another laugh, unable to argue.

“You should see your face. Wait, actually-” he rises up on elbows and pats around for his phone, “-you _should_ see your face.”

When Sander finally gets himself upright, he positions Robbe in front of him and draws back to get a good look, fingers capturing his skull in a delicate cage so as not to disturb anything. Nodding once, he takes away his hands, snaps a quick photo and flips the screen round to show Robbe.

“Woooah, that’s so cool,” he breathes, angling his face back and forth. “What am I?”

“Gorgeous,” Sander supplies, automatic. “Nah, I just did whatever came to mind. Y’know, freeform.”

He watches Robbe’s long fingers trace the spiderweb trickling out from his hairline, the black line down his lips, the gold etched into all the steepest planes and angles of his face.

“It’s amazing, honestly.”

“Hmm. Your face is better,” Sander says, pushing a stray curl back from Robbe’s forehead and tucking it in place. He looks around for the pack of wipes, tugs one out and goes to start scrubbing it all away, but Robbe lurches backwards out of his reach.

“You sure?” he frowns.

“Course. It was only a trial run. Besides, I just wanted an excuse to stare at your face up close.”

He winks and gets back to removing his handiwork from Robbe’s face, one hand smoothing back his fringe.

“You know…” Robbe says, eyes to the ceiling and mouth twisting to one side as Sander rubs at his cheek. “We don’t even have to go out. I’m happy to just do something chill together.”

“I’m not watching you play Outlast,” Sander says flatly. “Plus I already said I’d help out.”

Robbe mumbles something about Outlast being a classic, but Sander just ignores it and keeps going. He hits a stubborn spot on Robbe’s chin, so he licks the pad of his thumb and is about to smudge it away when Robbe darts out his tongue, trying to lick at it too.

“Heeey now,” Sander says, low and warning, tips his head back to look down at Robbe. “We had a truce.”

“Yeah, yeah, ok,” Robbe sighs.

“Good. You do that again and we’re never getting out of here.”

“Where are we going tonight anyway?” Robbe asks, his head turning to follow Sander as he hoists himself up and strolls off towards the ensuite.

“Surpriiise,” he sing songs, grabbing a spare roll of toilet paper before returning and crouching down again. He bandages his hand in a few layers, uses it to blot the excess moisture from Robbe’s face.

“You could be a mummy?” Robbe tries, and Sander scoffs.

“Cover myself up, are you crazy? It’d be a tragedy.”

Robbe’s eyes crinkle over the top of the paper. “Good point.”

The music comes to a stop and Sander looks down to hit restart, almost jumps when he catches the time. “Shit you were right, we do have to go.”

They both get to their feet and stretch out before clearing the place down; Robbe swipes his face into the sleeve of his shirt, heading off towards the sink with the grey paint water, and Sander stacks away his kit, whistling bits and pieces of the Lou Reed number that closed out his playlist.

Once he’s packed his bag and pocketed his phone, Sander gives himself a quick once over in the mirror. He pats half-heartedly at the fluffy, mad-scientist tuft of his hair, unruly and darkened at the root. He used to put a lot more effort into styling it, but Robbe likes it this way so he mostly just lets it do what it wants, lets himself scruff up naturally.

“I could just be me,” he suggests, half to himself, as Robbe’s reflection moves around behind him in the mirror. “That’s pretty scary, right?”

Robbe stops in place, leant over to tie his shoes, looks up at him. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” Sander shrugs, grabbing his bag and slinging it over one shoulder. “I’d look good in a straight jacket don’t you thi-”

“Hey.”

He looks back up into the mirror to find Robbe stood a few steps behind him, steadily meeting his gaze in the reflection. There’s a slightly rigid set to his shoulders as he shakes his head, slow and firm, his eyes pinning Sander to the spot.

It goes like this now. The slightest hint of self-loathing and Robbe’s on him like a shot, usually cutting him off before he can even see the thought through. He hadn’t actually realised how much he used to say that kind of shit until Robbe started pulling him up on it.

“Alright, just a joke,” Sander tries, holding up his hands with a weak laugh, but Robbe doesn’t laugh along with him. There are phases every now and then when Sander leans more heavily on the gallows humour, finds something helpful in it - and sometimes Robbe lets it slide, but he never laughs. It’s only Sander in the gallows, after all.

“ _Oei_ , don’t hit me with the puppy eyes, damn,” Sander tries again, turning to face him with with a gentle, crooked smile. “Those things are lethal.”

Robbe visibly relaxes, dropping his gaze and letting out a little _tss_ through his teeth, like a pressure valve being loosened. One hand comes up to swipe at the tip of his nose, and Sander knows that tiny gesture so well his heart clenches.

Suddenly needing to be as close to him as possible, Sander grabs his jacket, throws it round his neck like a cape and swoops over to capture Robbe up in his arms, and Robbe’s hands instantly bury themselves in the leather, holding on for dear life as he’s twirled around. His giggle is a high, breathless flutter, punctuated by one small squeak as he finally thuds back down to the ground. It reminds Sander of decorating the house as a kid, stepping on one of those rubber toy bats just to annoy his mum. He snorts into Robbe’s neck, arms snaking round his waist to hold him tighter.

“Gotcha,” he whispers, lifting his head to give Robbe a dazed, dizzy kind of look, swaying slightly on the spot.

With his fingers still curled tight in Sander’s collar, Robbe tugs him in closer and kisses him. It starts slow, mouths moving lazy and unhurried, and Sander can still taste the toffee apple Robbe devoured in front of him at lunch, catch hints of the tartness and sweetness of it as Robbe’s tongue unrolls against his. Something about that sets him off and he surges closer, hands spanning the entire width of Robbe’s waist as he drags him in tight and presses flush against him. Their heads tilt and bob as they start to lick into each other with more intent, like they’re searching for something, seeing who can get deeper to the bottom of who. When one of Sander’s hands smooths down across his lower back and slips beneath his waistband, just barely ghosting the curve of his ass, Robbe lets out a steep, high noise, almost an upwards inflection - the kind of noise that snaps something hot and elastic through Sander’s gut, the kind of noise that usually acts as a warning signal, says _this is our tipping point, we either stop right fucking now or we won’t be able to_.

Sander wrenches backwards, lightning-quick and determined, like a man about to set a bone, or unbind a wound. He breathes harsh through his mouth, rolling his forehead against Robbe’s with a pained half-smile.

“Okay,” he breathes, “okay. We really have to go.”

The blood’s risen in Robbe’s face when he draws back. He looks at Sander for a moment, breathes, “fuck it,” and goes in for another kiss, but Sander stops him with a finger to the throat and pushes him back with no real force.

“Later,” Sander murmurs, and presses one quick, wet kiss to his mouth before stepping away.

“ _Neeeee_ ,” Robbe groans, hands reaching out to grab at him as he goes.

“Come!” Sander flaps one hand over his shoulder without turning, unable to look at Robbe like that any longer - his cheeks tipsy-pink, liquid eyes dropped down to half mast and hoop earring glinting as he sways, like he’s pitching about in a sea of his own want.

The idea of a pirate costume flashes through Sander’s mind for one brief, ridiculous moment, but he thinks it’s best to file the suggestion away for later. Casually as he’s able, he leans against his doorway, one foot kicked up against the jamb.

“Ready?”

Robbe just glares at him a moment, shaking his head minutely. Then, without looking away, he picks up his jacket from the bed and slips it on, walks forward to stand in front of Sander. Sander looks down to his swollen lips and back up again before he can stop himself, and Robbe’s mouth twitches.

Stepping to one side, Robbe sweeps out his hand.

“Lead the way."

*

Sander couldn’t have asked for a better sky. It’s like something from a movie - something from _his_ movie, the vast black canvas of it just waiting for him to give it some colour and shape.

The moon is cartoon-huge, hanging so full and bright that it doesn’t even seem like nighttime, like she’s flicked herself on full-beam just to spotlight their way. A promising rust-red ring hangs around her in a perfect circle, the kind that usually tells him something good’s about to happen.

Sander spins his wheels harder and grins up at her, conspiratorial, part of him wondering if she’s in on the plan. He feels her tugging at his edges, pulling him along on a tide. Nights like this always give him a boost, make him sharper, more alive, and it’s easier now to enjoy the rush of it, knowing Robbe’s there at his back to tether him. He feels safer this way, like she can’t pull him too far off course, send him veering off into the darkness.

He comes close - literally - at one point, goes hurtling so fast down one hill that his vision bleeds and the wind becomes a shrieking whistle in his ears, black jacket flapping like bat wings behind him. He steadies his course at the last moment, saves himself the embarrassment of ending up on his ass in front of Robbe, who’s been cheering him on the whole time, peddling at top speed to keep up.

The playlist’s on again, mostly for motivation, to keep them going during the long bike ride to Sander’s hidden spot. It’s slightly muffled through his jacket pocket but Sander doesn’t care, he just sings louder to compensate.

“People are strange, when you’re a stranger, faces look ugly when you’re alone…”

“I like that one!” Robbe calls, voice whipping over to him on the wind.

“When you’re-” Sander leans back with one hand on the handlebars, fully encouraged, his voice going throaty and exaggerated, “-straaaaange.”

It may as well be the millionth time he’s serenaded Robbe like this, in some ridiculous voice, in some ridiculous situation, but Robbe always acts like it’s the first. His front wheel wobbles slightly as he throws his head backwards and laughs with complete delight.

“You should change careers, baby!” he shouts as they peddle on forwards together at breakneck speed.

“You’re right!” Sander calls back, craning his head towards the end of the road to where it splits off down a dark path. “And I should start charging you for every performance!”

“Ah, _fuck_ ,” Robbe laughs, head swivelling to watch as Sander suddenly slows his speed. “Is this it?”

Sander nods and shoots him a sharp, sideways smile, something giddy hopping about in his chest.

“This is it.”

They break off down the path and keep cycling until the trees all start to cluster together, like they’re trying to hide whatever lies beyond. Sander swings off his bike and lets it topple on its side, keeps walking on forward without losing momentum until he reaches a large iron gate.

There’s a big red sign bolted to it, huge letters stamped into the metal: PRIVAAT DOMEIN VERBODEN TOEGANG.

Sander tips an imaginary hat at it and walks right up to the bars, stooping down with a knee in the dirt and cupping his hands to offer Robbe a boost. Still eyeing the sign, Robbe takes a tentative step forward.

“You’re sure?”

One point of difference between them is that Robbe at least likes to know where the limits are before he tests them. Sander patiently unlaces his fingers, leans back with one arm braced on his knee.

“100%. I’ve scoped this place out loads of times. No one’s gonna kidnap us, or chase us around with a knife, I promise.”

Robbe squints up at the sign for another moment or two.

“Ok,” is all he says, and then he steps forward onto Sander’s hands, and scales the gate.

“How am I gonna pay you then?” he says, a little out of breath when Sander drops down beside him.

“Huh?” Sander cocks an eyebrow, stooping slightly to swipe at the dirt on his jeans.

“Payment,” Robbe says. “For the singing.”

“Aaaah,” Sander breathes, straightening up, a smile snaking its way across his face. “What do you think?”

Head tilted to one side, Robbe considers it for a moment. Then he balls his hands into fists and holds them at his back.

“Trick or treat.”

“Robbe, that’s not how it works-”

“Just do it.”

Sander chews at the inside of his cheek, eyes narrowed as he steps up into Robbe’s space. He tries to stare him down but Robbe just looks straight back at him, unfazed. Slowly, Sander leans in until their chests are almost touching, and reaches one hand around Robbe’s body to tap on his left fist.

Robbe’s eyes flash. “Trick.”

“Of course it is-” Sander starts, but he’s cut off by Robbe kissing him, hard and full on the mouth.

Taken totally by surprise, his hands scramble for purchase in the back of Robbe’s jacket, and he’s just starting to ease into it, finding his rhythm and dipping his tongue past Robbe's lips when Robbe wrenches backwards, looking very proud of himself.

“We square?”

“Not even close,” Sander breathes, reaching for him again, but Robbe grabs his forearms, tilting back further with that smug look still on his face.

“Robbeee,” Sander finally groans, “you’re killing me with this.”

“It’s payback for what you did before we left the house.”

Sander scoffs, throwing his arms out. “That was payback for what _you_ did! Plus we were late. And we still kinda are, so we should keep going.”

Sander jerks his heard towards the next line of trees, and the dark looming shape behind them. When Robbe follows his line of sight, Sander sees something bright and curious flicker in his eyes.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he mutters, craning his neck, and Sander offers out his hand with a smirk.

“I’m always right.”

Robbe rolls his eyes, but takes it. They walk comfortably for a minute or two, hands swinging, shoes crunching on dead leaves and breath misting the air, the moon still spilling a carpet out in front of them. Sander screws up his face suddenly.

“Wait, if that was the trick, what was the treat?”

“Uhhh,” Robbe tilts his head and squints up at the sky. “Blowjob?”

Sander comes to a halt so abruptly he almost tips over, mouth dropping open in shock. He lunges for Robbe’s hands, moulding them back into fists and wrestling them round behind his back.

“Fuck it, we’re going again.”

Robbe’s laughter is the loudest it’s been all night, even as he struggles against Sander’s attempts at manhandling him.

“N-nee, Sander _stop_ ,” he splutters, twisting out of his grip and tearing off towards the trees as soon as he’s free. Sander grins and launches into hot pursuit, but Robbe’s always been lighter on his feet, whipping on ahead until Sander loses sight of him.

Sander slows as he reaches the gap Robbe shot through; he squeezes himself through the bushes, one hand coming up to clear a path.

“Robbe?”

No response.

“ _Robbe_ ,” he tries, louder, trying not to let panic seep into his voice. “This isn’t funny.”

Picking up the pace again, he pushes his way forward until he hits the main path, head twisting all around as he sprints to the end and rounds the bend. He stops dead in his tracks, relief flooding his veins as he spots Robbe, stood completely still in the open clearing, arms hanging limp by his sides as he gapes up at the old mansion.

“Holy _shit…_ ”

Robbe breathes it so softly Sander barely catches it. He walks over next to him, wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand as he tries to get his breathing under control, and can’t help but smile as he takes in Robbe’s reaction. The look of total dumbstruck wonder on his face is something Sander knows is going to stay with him for a long time. He turns so that they’re stood shoulder to shoulder, looks up at the house alongside him.

“Not bad, huh?”

The sight of the place at night has Sander feeling a little dumbstruck too. It looms just that much higher, shadows falling steeper and darker across its face, like something straight out of a gothic horror. In fact, seeing it like this, Sander thinks it looks more like three different houses stuck together. It’s all curves and angles, half-boarded windows and random patches of moss-green brick, a squat turret sat at one corner and a half-moon weathervane sticking up at another, whining and stuttering in the wind. The middle of the roof is buckled, sloping down towards a crumbling balcony, and standing beneath are three huge arches; in the daytime Sander could spot graffiti on the wall just past them, but now it’s like the night has rushed in to paint them pitch black, huge empty spaces side by side like a row of knocked in teeth.

Sander feels anticipation skitter up the back of his neck as he takes it in. More than anything he wants this place to hook Robbe in the same way it hooked him.

“Sander…” Robbe trails off, at a loss. “How the fuck did you even find this place? It’s…I mean, _fuck_. It literally looks like a haunted house.”

“Maybe it is,” Sander hits the torch on his phone, turns around with his arm held aloft. “Wanna go find out?”

“We’re going in?”

Sander stops, head lolling backwards as he sends Robbe a flat look. “Robbe. I’m not even gonna dignify that with an answer.”

Robbe stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets and spreads them out in a _what?_ gesture, and Sander almost laughs at the sight of him standing there - the tiny, incredulous wingspan of him.

“It’s a fair question! This place looks pretty fucking old.”

One thing he’s noticed in the past twelve months is that Robbe tends to swear a lot when he’s even slightly out of his depth.

Robbe wanders a little to the side, nudges at a deflated old football with the toe of his scuffed up shoe, and Sander watches him, amused.

“You’re fucking cute, you know that?”

“Hmm,” is Robbe’s only response. Then he turns to look up at the house again. And, just like at the gate, he keeps looking up, his eyes travelling over everything, taking a moment to let it all sink in, and Sander can almost feel him yielding. Though there’s not usually much space to yield. Robbe has a bizarrely natural habit for following him into the strangest of places, and falling right into step beside him - he always has done.

“You gonna run away again?” Sander says, dips his head to shoot Robbe a dark, wicked sort of look that usually works a charm.

Robbe’s face falls. He takes one step forward and that’s it, Sander knows he’s made up his mind.

“I’m not running anywhere.”

“Oh no?”

“No. You won’t scare me,” Robbe says simply, with a funny expression that makes Sander suddenly want to look away.

“Ok then,” he says, clears his throat a little before jerking his head towards the house. “Allee.”

They make their way across the garden and round the side of the house, which is much more sheltered, barely touched by the moonlight. Sander keeps his eye out for a large hole in the wall, just up a short flight up stone steps, and as soon as he spots it he smirks to himself, spinning in place to walk backwards with the torch held beneath his face.

“Coooome,” he warbles, “come closeeer, lieve Robbe.”

He can just about make out Robbe’s nose wrinkling in the dark as he steps forward. “My mum told me not to follow strange men into creepy old houses.”

Sander goes all in, curling his fingers in a beckoning gesture. “Maybe you’ll enjoooy it,” he says, still hamming up the voice, his laughter partly ruining the effect.

Another thing he’s noticed in the past year or so is that he has a habit of getting goofier anytime Robbe’s started to go quiet.

Robbe bites down on his lip, shaking his head. “You make a habit of luring boys into your lair?”

“Only the pretty ones. Don’t worry, schatje, there’s nothing to be afraid of. And if there is,” Sander shrugs, taking a few more steps backwards, “I’ll protect you.”

“You would?” Robbe asks, half-joking, but there’s a curious lilt in his voice that Sander knows too well. He always wants to know what Sander would do for him, eager for Sander to clearly outline the limits of his devotion. But Sander holds out just this once.

“Sure. I’ll carry you around bridal style when you jump up into my arms screaming.”

Robbe huffs. “Yeah, don’t hold your breath.”

When they reach their point of entry, Sander shines his torch into the gap and they both lean in to look, heads tilted towards each other.

“Here we go, point of no return,” Sander says under his breath, still staring forwards. “We keep going now, you can’t turn back.”

“Why the hell would I want to?” Robbe says plainly, and there’s that feeling again, hitting Sander from all kinds of strange angles, jumping up at him from underneath.

He inclines his head towards Robbe; a quick sideways scan of his face. Robbe’s just waiting expectantly, so Sander nods, takes the first step and squeezes through into the hallway. Robbe follows right behind; he kicks up some dust as he steps over the threshold, face scrunching up for a moment to suppress a sneeze. He swipes at his nose with his coat sleeve as he peers past Sander’s shoulder down the length of the hall.

“Ok?” Sander says, watching him closely.

Robbe steps past him with an impish look and starts to wander off, beyond Sander’s torchlight and into the darkness.

“Ok. But I bet you scream first.”

*

It takes them a while to reach the end of the hall. Part of the roof has caved in and they spend some time slowly picking their way through chunks of rubble and plaster, careful not to disturb anything. 

Sander’s made his way up front again with the torch, pointing out the spots where he’s learned to watch his feet and offering his arm for balance. At one point Robbe teeters a bit too heavily, and Sander clasps his hand in a firm grip to keep him upright. It sends a rush of nostalgia through him, thinking about that night last year when their hands had first touched, how that brief contact had left his palm singing well into the early hours of the morning as he lay there next to Britt, sleepless. 

“This is so much cooler than that shit the guys pulled last year.”

Robbe says it with a knowing twinkle in his eye, squeezing his hand, and Sander lets out a huff, shakes his head in amazement as he squeezes back. Moments like this don’t help to convince him that they don’t share two halves of the same brain. 

As they approach what he assumes was the dining room, Robbe speaks up again behind him, softly.

“I don’t see any mirrors. Very suspicious.”

“I promise this isn’t a vampire lair, Robbe,” Sander says, raising his phone to squint at a shredded old painting of what might’ve been a horse.

“Sounds like something a vampire would say,” Robbe says under his breath, and Sander snorts, twisting to wriggle the fingers of his free hand over his shoulder.

“Bleeeugh,” he says in his best attempt at ghoulish Transylvanian, and Robbe snickers.

“Hey Robbe,” he says after thinking for a moment, “you wanna know where I’d start if I was gonna suck you dry?”

Sander turns in place to shine the torch in Robbe’s face, gets set up for the instant pay off of his reaction. Just before he angles it towards him, he’s hit dead on by Robbe’s beaming smile, the glow-stick gleam of his teeth in the dark.

“Lemme guess,” Robbe casts his eyes to the ceiling and pretends to rack his brains. “Is it my dick?”

“It’s your dick,” Sander beams along with him, proud.

“At least I’d go out on a high, right?”

Sander sighs, almost dreamy. “See?” He gestures to the horse as if to demonstrate. “You just get me, Robin.”

“Always,” Robbe says, and nudges him gently ahead.

They drift around the dining room for a few minutes, peering at the broken down remains of a huge oak table, the metal bones of a display case in the corner. Out of nowhere, a stray cat yowls right by the open window and sends Sander jolting about a foot in the air. 

“Jesus fucking _christ_ ,” he breathes, clutching his chest and Robbe bursts out laughing.

“I knew it,” he crows, waving a finger in the air at him, “I knew you’d squeal first.”

“Didn’t.”

“You did! You looked like one of those old cartoons.” 

Robbe mimics jumping upwards like he’s been electrified, and Sander has to laugh a little as he pictures it - his skeleton flickering mid-air and his hair stood on end, spirit sprinting straight out of his skin as he hits the ground.

Robbe comes closer to smooth a hand across his shoulders, leans in to peck his cheek.

“Don’t worry, schat, I’ll protect you.”

“Very clever,” Sander says with a rueful smile, angling his head for a proper kiss. Robbe easily complies, but keeps it tame, one hand coming up to rest against Sander’s chest. He keeps it there until Sander feels his heart rate start to slow back down.

“Where to next?” Robbe’s eyes are soft as he pulls away, the light from the window cutting across his face in a straight diagonal line.

“Main event,” Sander whispers against his mouth, and tugs him off by his coat sleeve towards an empty doorway.

With one hand still on him, Sander leads them through, turns left into a smaller room, then straight through to another large hole in the wall, Robbe on his heels the whole time, backing him up. There’s a sudden surge of wind outside, and the whole house shivers, rattling floors and walls and spaces where windows should be. They stand completely still for a few moments, not daring to breathe.

“You ok?” Sander says eventually, and he hears the waver in his own voice. 

Robbe presses a soothing hand to his lower back, anchors it in the hem of his jacket and tugs just once. 

“Right behind you,” he says, low and steady.

Blowing out a breath, Sander ducks under a rusted pipe sticking out of the wall, and steps out into the huge reception hall.

He turns off his torch and pockets his phone, gazing around himself as Robbe steps up behind him, feeling that same shudder of excitement he felt when he first stood here. 

Sander loves this space the most, the way it lives up to its name and seems to welcome him in; the cracked mosaic tile at his feet, the glint of broken glass strewn everywhere, the small patches of green spurting through wherever they can, grass clustered at the skirting boards and ivy creeping up towards the ceiling. His favourite thing might be the grandfather clock by the front door, the way the wood has splintered open to reveal the naked backbone of the pendulum, hanging heavy and quiet.

The main staircase has mostly crumbled away and left behind a kind of atrium, moonlight streaming in through a large window above and flooding the central spot where they stand, giving them a clear view up into the heart of the house. 

“Holy fuck,” Robbe says, his small voice swelling in the wide open space, and Sander can only nod. 

In some backwards way, every part of it looks clearer at night. There’s a rustling high up somewhere, a pigeon or an owl hooting, a creak and groan from the floorboards above their heads. An old sheet thrown over a large window billows inwards, like the house has inhaled. Sander feels his skin start to tingle, catches sight of the shock of his own hair in a cracked mirror opposite, more wild and bone-white than he’s ever seen it. 

Something about this place right now is getting to him. Not necessarily in a bad or a good way, just something familiar and uncanny that he can’t quite put a finger on. He feels like he’s inside and outside at the same time. 

“You ok?” Robbe voice fades in, breaks Sander back to the surface. He’s not sure when but Robbe’s gotten a hand on him again, palm pressed flat in the space between his shoulderblades, that sixth sense he has for reaching out before Sander even knows he needs it. 

“It’s, uh. It’s a little different at night,” Sander says. He presses his lips together, one head coming up to scratch at back of his neck.

“That’s ok. I’m sure it’s not as creepy as this during the day. But then it’s not as cool as this either.”

Sander turns to him, slightly eager, searching his face. “You really think it’s cool? Honestly?”

“I think it’s fucking beautiful,” Robbe says softly, head tipping back again to look up into the floor above. “I wonder who lived here.”

“A German family. Then a couple soldiers at the end of the war.” Sander slips his hands in his pockets, squints one eye as he tries to remember. “I think it was a hotel after that. Then in the seventies it was Ponyland.”  
  
Robbe slants a skeptical look at him. “Ponyland?”

“Yep,” Sander nods with a grin. “Y’know like a fun place for kids, horseriding and stuff. All the cool shit happens in the seventies.” 

“You would say that,” Robbe says under his breath, and Sander feels an affectionate little pat on his back. “How’d you know all that, anyway?”

“Read it somewhere,” Sander shrugs, taps at his own temple. “That kinda stuff just gets stuck in there.”

“Your memory’s spooky, Sander.”

“Good choice of words.”

Laughing lowly, Robbe slips his hand from Sander’s back and takes a few steps forward. His shoes crunch on the glass as he turns in a circle, taking it all in. 

“It looks like no one’s been here in a hundred years, though. Hard to believe it’s been like four different things.”

Sander looks around himself too, pictures all those people passing through over the years. It’s not the first time he’s done that since discovering the place; he’s actually thought about it a lot. In class, out walking, sketching at his desk or perched on his windowsill for a guilty smoke. He’s thought about how they dressed, what they ate at dinner parties, whether they gambled and whether or not they were any good. He’s wondered if any of them were born here, or if they played instruments, or went to sleep too late. Where they would’ve hidden snacks and old letters, how much they drank or fucked or fought, and in which rooms.

When it comes down to it, that’s the main draw of exploring for him. Being able to stumble upon the remains of a place that’s halfway gone, to make up stories and paint scenes in his head to fill in the blanks. It tends to help when he can’t sleep, or when his brain’s all fog and cobwebs - too many thoughts, too much movement skittering around in his periphery.

It makes the spaces feel oddly personal, somehow. And it’s still a new thing, to share that with someone else. 

“It’s worn a lot of different faces,” Sander murmurs, half to himself.

Robbe seems intrigued by that. “It has a face now?” 

“Oh yeah.” He takes the opportunity to side-step around Robbe, circling him a little. “This thing’s got eyes, I know it does. It’s seen some shit.” 

Robbe nods almost reluctantly, turning with him. “It does feel…kind of alive.” 

“Hmm, these places are always talking if you pay attention. And I think this…” Sander stops in the half-filled pit of the staircase, gestures up to the midway point where it would’ve changed direction, the jaw-hinge where it split in two. “This right here is the mouth.” 

“The mouth,” Robbe repeats.

“Yep,” Sander says, looking up at him beneath his brows. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t spit us out.”

For a moment or two Robbe just eyes him, one side of his mouth tugging upwards thoughtfully.

“I don’t think that’s gonna happen. I think it wants us here.”

“Oh yeah?”

Robbe shrugs. “It hasn’t kicked us out yet, has it? Maybe it’s happy to have some company for once. Must suck for everyone to think you’re dangerous, like you’re gonna cave in at any second.”

Sander freezes in place, right in the centre of the room, moonlight streaming in at his back. He blinks at Robbe. 

“Huh,” is all he manages to get out, suddenly hit with the mad, fleeting urge to slink off into a sheltered corner and hide.

“It could,” he says eventually, voice like deep rust in his chest. “It might.”

He watches Robbe closely, almost apprehensive, and Robbe just shrugs again. 

“Only if we act like assholes and fuck it up, right? We’ve been good so far.” 

Robbe says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world, sends a sweet, earnest look upwards and cups his hands to his mouth. “We mean you no harm!” he calls softly, and Sander decides then that he’s gonna bring Robbe to this exact spot, every Halloween from now on. 

Before he knows it his feet are carrying him right over in front of Robbe. He reaches out and lays a hand on the warm, open strip of skin by his collar, smoothing up the side of his neck, just needing to touch him. Robbe’s hand comes up to cover his, and they look at each other for a moment, breathing in time together. 

The comfortable silence is broken by a loud rustling of feathers somewhere above their heads. Sander snorts, more release than laughter, and Robbe leans sideways to look up into the top floors, trying to find the source.

“Wait, can you see straight through to the sky?”

Sander nods, points up through the guts of the house to a jagged, mid-sized opening way up in the rafters.

“Just there, you see?”

“Woah, let me get a better look.” Robbe makes his way over to a large block of stone, braces a foot on the edge to push himself up and Sander steps forward quickly, hands hovering around him.

“Woah woah Robbe, be careful.”

Robbe drops down onto his back foot and shoots him a flat look. “Have _you_ done this?” he asks, but from the tone of his voice it’s clear he already knows the answer.

“Well yeah I have, but-”

“Allee, then give me a hand.”

Sander knows better than to argue, knows for a fact that Robbe couldn’t talk him out of it if the situation was reversed. Keeping a firm grip on his hips, he helps Robbe step up onto the block in one swift movement. Robbe gazes skywards like he’s in a trance, swaying to one side, and suddenly Sander’s thrown back through time back again - he’s eighteen and his face is half-numb with the way he’s grinning up at Robbe, wobbling above him with one foot on either side of the cart, everything bright and giddy under strip lights as they fall into sync with one another for the very first time.

Robbe hops down neatly by his side and sends him a small, secret smile. 

“Let’s live here one day.”

Skin tingling all over, Sander offers out his hand, and the way Robbe takes it is fluid and instinctive. They shake on it once, and Sander grins, the side of his thumb tracing the inside of Robbe’s wrist.

“Deal.”

He’s only half-joking. He’d find a way to rebuild the entire place if Robbe asked him to.

*

Sander ends up doing a short skit with the Grandfather clock, cupping his ear towards it like it’s magically come back to life and started to chime.

“Time to go,” he says, and tugs a laughing Robbe off through the empty arch of a double doorway just left of the stairs. 

He thinks it’s the living room, though technically it’s the bedroom too. There’s no longer a ceiling to separate the two, just a thick grey band running along the top of the wall, the belt of where it would’ve been. 

Sander talks a lot. He points out the things he’s noticed before; the deep red strip of curling wallpaper in one corner, the intricate wrought ironwork of the fire guard, any rug stain or patch of damp that he’s given a backstory. He moves about constantly, not quite knowing where to put himself, still feeling the faint aftershocks of whatever struck him in that hall.

If Robbe notices, he doesn’t make a big deal of it. He follows Sander’s movement, nods along bright-eyed and attentive as Sander rambles on, like he’s a VIP being given the grand tour. 

“Well if this is our home now it’s important to know all this stuff, right?”

“Exactly,” Sander points a finger at him.

He turns towards the large bay window and stretches himself out, arms fanning wide as he peers out into the huge back garden. Robbe wanders off to get a closer look at the fireplace, and his body ripples with a sudden shiver that Sander only catches out of the corner of his eye. 

“You ok?” he says, pulling one elbow across his chest. “We can leave.”

“No no, just drafty.” Robbe’s shoulders give an involuntary little jerk upwards as he wraps his jacket tighter around himself.

“Aaaaah, ok,” Sander says, melodic and sly, like he’s caught Robbe out. “I can help with that.”

Smirking, he opens his own jacket to invite Robbe in, and Robbe doesn’t need to be asked twice. In what seems like two steps he’s right in Sander’s arms, enveloping himself, head nuzzling under Sander’s chin and arms cinching tight around his waist.

Sander rests his cheek on the crown of Robbe’s head, lets his gaze wander up to the bedroom above, thoughtful.

“I bet the acoustics in here are unreal,” he says under his breath, and Robbe makes a small noise of acknowledgement into his chest. Sander closes his eyes as he feels the soft, vibrating thrum of it, feels his blood start to hum with Robbe pressed so close. 

He leans back and lets out a soft howl, listening closely as the echo bounces upwards.

Robbe lifts his head to smile at him, curls sticking out at odd angles. “You’d make a good a werewolf.”

“Mmm, maybe,” Sander says, coming back down to meet him at eye-level. He lowers his voice and lets the words roll out, thick and silky. “Would you like that? Me crawling towards you on all fours?”

He tests the waters with a slow, subtle forward-press of his hips, and Robbe’s breath stutters, pupils dilating as his gaze drops down to Sander’s mouth.

Sander smirks again, smelling blood. He wets his lips and leans in closer, so close his lips catch on Robbe’s as he whispers, “I’d eat you whole.”

For a moment it feels like atmosphere in the room drops, like the whole house has shrouded itself in total silence, leaving only the thundering of his own heartbeat in his ears. Robbe’s eyes are molten on his, amber-flecked and glinting in the light.

“Terrifying,” he whispers, and dives forwards to meet Sander’s mouth halfway. 

They don’t ease into it this time. The kiss is bruising from the jump, all tongues and teeth, an artless, near-painful crush that has them stumbling back against the nearest wall. 

It’s almost a struggle, one of them pushing, the other pushing back. Sander makes a rough, unthinking noise as he licks his tongue in deeper, hands slipping down into Robbe’s back pockets to drag their hips together, rougher this time. Robbe tilts his head and opens his mouth wider in response, breathes harsh through his nose and gives back as good as he’s getting. He twists his fingers in Sander’s hair, hard, and Sander feels it shooting straight down to his dick, grunts when Robbe does it a second time. Robbe’s lips give a smug twitch against his, and then his hands are everywhere, grasping at him, clamping around his shoulders, running down his chest and back up to cup the sides of his face. He slips one round to the neck of Sander’s shirt and tugs, practically _yanks_ it, that little surge of strength he gets when he’s just letting himself give in to what he wants.

“Off,” Robbe pants, tugging harder until Sander hears the stitching crack. “Get it off.”

“Fuck, ok, yeah.”

Shedding his jacket, Sander grabs the back of his shirt and hauls it over head, tosses it away and goes to lunge forward again but Robbe holds him in place with his elbows locked in at his sides. His mouth latches onto Sander’s chest, hot and greedy, teething at his collarbone then dropping, drifting downwards. Sander’s groan echoes through half the house when he feels the wet drag of Robbe’s tongue across his nipple.

Grasping Robbe’s shoulders, he hauls him back upright, tries to wrestle off his shirt but he’s too frantic to get it off the whole way, just hooks it behind Robbe’s neck and presses in tight until he can feel Robbe’s heartbeat thudding in his own chest, feel Robbe’s lungs expand just at the moment his own deflate. The thought of them like that, totally wound up together, makes Sander’s blood pump so relentlessly it shakes his skull, and he lets out a frustrated whine in the rush to get their belts undone, hands knocking together as they flip open buckles and wrench down zips. When he finally works a hand into Robbe’s boxers and curls his fist around the heat of him, Robbe makes the sweetest, hitching sound right up next to his ear, his own hands faltering at Sander’s waistband. Sander knows that noise by heart, he fucking lives for that noise; the sound of it breaks his flesh out in goosebumps, floods new waves of heat through him, and he grips Robbe tighter, pumps his hand faster as he wrenches back to watch.

Robbe’s half-slumped against the wall, his eyebrows knitted together and his mouth hanging open, and Sander can see the pulse jumping in his neck, see his own spit glistening on Robbe’s lips. His hair’s already been raked into a wild tangle under Sander’s hands, and his eyes are dazed and heavy, like he’s spellbound, on another plane.

“Robbe,” he rasps, and it seems to shake him out of his trance. He finds his grip in Sander’s waistband, drags it down and hauls Sander in closer. 

Sander practically falls into him, one hand at his lower back and one across his belly, hissing against his mouth at that first dizzying slide of the two of them pressed flush against one another.

“Jesus,” he breathes, and drags his hips again, more deliberate this time, more measured, trying to slow the pace a bit. The breath whooshes out of Robbe as he does, stomach muscles twitching under his palm. “ _Fuck_.” 

The light in the room shifts, a cloud sweeping somewhere across the sky, and Sander feels himself list off to one side. Feels the moon under his skin, tugging. From there on he doesn’t hold back, starts to move his hips in earnest - steady, merciless thrusts that break Robbe’s body out in tremors against his, make the hair on his arms stand on end. Sander feels himself shaking loose alongside him, shoots up a trembling hand to angle Robbe’s head to one side before diving back in to kiss him, frantic and open-mouthed. 

Sander’s jaw pops as it stretches wide, swallowing down every broken noise Robbe makes, and the muscles in his back flex and contract as he sweeps his tongue in deeper and deeper, over and over again, not coming up once for air. Robbe clings on and meets him half-way, fingernails digging into Sander’s spine, raking downwards, and Sander realises with a sudden jolt that he’s gonna see those marks tomorrow. He moans around Robbe’s tongue, practically side-tackled by the image of those vivid red welts trickling down his skin, lasting proof of Robbe’s need for him, and whatever part of him that was still holding back snaps completely in two. 

With one sharp inhale, Sander rips himself backwards and licks his own palm in one shaking, messy swipe. He feels half-feral, almost inhuman as he plunges it back down to grip them both together, watches dark-eyed as Robbe’s eyes swivel back, hips jumping up into his hand. He buries his entire face in the crook of Robbe’s neck, bottom lip catching against the rapid hammer of his pulse.

“ _God_ , Robbe,” he groans, muffled, slapping his free hand against the wall, almost laughing - it’s too good, too much to process all at once. 

Sander doubles his pace, practically rutting now, fucking up against Robbe in the tight circle of his own fist. He bites at Robbe’s jawline and across his swollen mouth, nips his lower lip so sharply he thinks he might’ve drawn blood. Robbe whimpers, slumping down lower against the wall, and a half-intelligible string of curses tumbles out of his mouth, sudden and breathless like he’s been holding them in. He starts pushing up faster into Sander’s hand, straining to meet the frenzied, relentless snap of Sander’s hips.

“Sander, keep-” he pants, both hands skating down to grasp at Sander’s ass, kneading in with his fingers, “-keep going. Please keep going.”

Sander pulls back to watch him again, needing to see the look on his face, for Robbe to see the look on his.

“Robbe I love you,” he blurts out, his voice shredded to pieces and something swelling against his ribcage, fit to burst. “I love you.”

He’s never known any other way than this; to scoop out his own insides and hold them up for Robbe’s inspection. Sometimes he wishes he did.

Robbe’s eyes flutter open, hips slowing almost to a stop. His expression is dazed for a brief, hovering moment, and then he blinks, and it transforms into something closer to complete bliss. He smiles wide and languid as he breathes the words back, so gently Sander almost doesn’t hear him over the rush of his own blood.

Cradling his head with both hands, Sander leans in and kisses him as soundly and thoroughly as he’s physically able to. As he starts to move again, he ducks his head back down and murmurs into the hollow of Robbe's throat; a low, unbroken chant, like an incantation, pouring praise into him and promising all kinds of things he knows he won’t remember in much detail, but meaning every one of them anyway.

Robbe sighs, mewls in response, and Sander’s convinced the air around them starts to crackle. He rocks faster, stoking the cauldron-swirl of heat in his stomach, smiling as the noises bubble up in Robbe’s throat, drifting off into the air like smoke.

*

For a late night in October it’s nowhere near as freezing as he thought it’d be, so he figures lying down outside should be ok. Besides, they’re not ready to leave just yet. 

There’s a huge ash tree in the back garden - a hulking, ancient looking thing that droops to one side, gnarled branches almost touching the ground. They pick a spot just near it, still mostly out in the open where they can see the sky, watch clouds drift across the moon.

Sander tilts his chin upwards and thinks again to himself that he couldn’t have picked a better night. His body sinks into the soft grass, heavier now that he’s worked some of the jitters out of his system. Now that he’s sure Robbe’s fallen head over heels for this place, just like he has.

He’s got the playlist on again, something cool and bluesy, nothing too intrusive as they lie together peacefully. Sander kicks one foot over the other, laces his fingers behind his head; he can almost smell the chill in the air, that earthy outside smell of dirt and leaves, and something about it makes him feel strangely at home.

To his left, Robbe seems content enough too. He has his eyes closed and his hands folded across his stomach, and his face is totally serene. Sander smiles to himself as he pictures the two of them laying here, shot from above. He can’t wait to draw it. 

“Y’know, maybe being zombies wouldn’t be so bad.”  
  
It’s the end of a line of thought for him. People have pointed out to him that he’ll often do this, say something out loud that seems like it’s been plucked from a different conversation. Robbe does as he always does, laughs and tries to follow along, willing as always to join him on whatever meandering route he’s decided to take. He rolls onto his side and settles in to listen. 

“Uh huh?”

“Mmhm. Obviously we’re never gonna die, ‘cause why would we, it’s stupid,” Sander makes a face, flaps his hand through the air as though brushing something aside. “But if we did, it’d be cool to be undead together, don’t you think? Just wrap ourselves up in the dirt and sleep all day.”

He pats the soft earth beside him decisively.

“Sounds cosy,” Robbe says, and Sander widens his eyes as he throws up both hands.

“This is what I’m thinking!”

That earns him a giggle, and Sander lets his head drop sideways, feels his face soften with a crooked, expectant smile as he watches Robbe’s reaction. A small gust of wind shakes the branches above them, rustling the leaves and sending a few helicopter seeds fluttering down. 

“What do we do when we get up, go look for brains?” 

Robbe asks it like he’s already thought about it for a moment. Sander scrunches up his nose and makes a lazy, flippant gesture. 

“Nah, that’s too cliché.”

“Oh, that’s beneath us?” Robbe says, nodding along with his brows raised, humouring him.

“Course. We’d just wander around together, y’know, watch trees grow, watch the sun get bigger. Take our time.”

Robbe shifts to resettle his weight against the ground, looks off to the side thoughtfully. “We wouldn’t need to. Time wouldn’t even be real we’d have so much of it.”

Sander stares at him, one hand flat against his chest. It never takes Robbe long to figure out where he’s going - to tune into his wavelength, plant his feet on that cart and just ride along with him.   
  
“Even better,” Sander says, his voice dropping quieter. “There’s not enough time alive to love you anyway.”

He watches Robbe melt the way he always does when Sander says sappy stuff like that, watches his flustered smile, the one that starts at one corner of his mouth and blooms outwards, dimpling his cheeks like it just wants to keep going, doesn’t know where to stop.

“What d’you say, Robin?” Sander murmurs, with a gentle jerk of his chin.

Robbe pretends to consider it, then says, simply, “Ok.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure, why not?” Robbe folds his hands flat beneath his cheek, one on top of the other, half his face glowing blue-white and otherworldly. If Sander concentrates, he can almost see the moondust on his skin, takes that as another little sign from the universe; a great cosmic wink down at them, confirmation of that first gut feeling that carried them all the way here. 

“I think I could love you dead too,” Robbe finishes, soft and completely earnest.

The grins that splits across Sander's face is so sharp it tugs at the dryness of his lips, pulls them tight in the cold air. He can practically feel the cat-flash of his own eyes in the dark, and Robbe must notice it too, as his gaze flicks back and forth, almost puzzled.

“Your eyes are really green,” he says, more to himself than Sander.

One of Sander’s hands twitches of its own accord, creeps closer to Robbe in the grass, and Robbe’s eyes stick to it, his body tensing up like it’s waiting, bracing itself in giddy anticipation. Something shifts on his face, slots into place, and then he nods - just once, very deliberately.

And that’s all it takes for Sander to surge forward, looming towards him with one elbow dug into the dirt, hell-bent, like something bursting from the ground. 

*

It’s pushing close to 2am by the time they end up back at Sander’s. Still winded from the bike ride, they pause at the front door to catch their breath and clap the dirt from their shoes, before slipping inside and creeping upstairs on socked feet. Sander nudges at Robbe’s ass with the back of his hand to hurry him on, dodging quickly and snorting when Robbe whips round to take a swipe at him. 

They peel off shirts smelling like must and damp, toss them into the wash basket and give themselves a quick wipe down at the sink. Robbe’s face creases up in silent laughter as Sander puts on a show in front of the mirror, all bedroom eyes as he trails the washcloth seductively across his body, shimmies his shoulder up against Robbe’s. Eventually Robbe gets tired of watching, snatches the cloth and chucks it into the sink, and they lose track of time for a while, Robbe sat up on the counter, back pressed to the mirror with Sander between his legs, humming happily against his mouth.

Once they’re dressed in soft sweats and finally curled up in bed, they rub each other’s arms and twist their legs together, laughing quietly as they try to warm up. Sander's not anywhere close to sleeping, and it doesn’t seem like Robbe is either, so he sets up his laptop and sticks on an old classic horror from the 30s. They end up only half watching, but he leaves it on as background noise as they lie together, winding down; Sander on his back with his arms spread out and Robbe curled in at his side, one leg thrown over his waist.

“So, Robbe. What’s your rating for tonight?” Sander’s voice is no more than a rumble in his chest, one hand smoothing back and forth across Robbe’s thigh. 

“A million stars,” Robbe answers almost immediately, pressing a tiny kiss to his bicep, “would go again.”

“Oh, we will. It’s tradition now, believe me,” Sander says, matter of fact, tucking his free arm under his head. He looks up at the ceiling for a moment, the old glow-in-the-dark stars he stuck up there as a kid. Then he turns back to Robbe with an earnest look. “You really enjoyed it, honestly? You didn’t think it was lame?”

Robbe scoffs into Sander’s shoulder, hitches his leg up higher as he presses closer. “Silly. Course not. Besides, even it it was, everything’s fun with you anyway.” 

Sander readjusts his head on his arm to get a better look at him. Half his face is buried in Sander’s hoodie, eyes closed with a peaceful smile. There’s a black-and-white flicker across his cheekbone, the angle of his jaw, Frankenstein’s monster groaning and shambling about just past his shoulder. 

Robbe cracks open one eye. “I’ve told you that before, right?”

He has. A little drunk and overexcited, pawing all over Sander like a puppy. He kept calling him witch, which had confused Sander at first, but he’d played along, hopelessly charmed as always by a not-sober Robbe. _Wizard_ , Robbe had eventually corrected himself, waving an unsteady finger and explaining in too many words that Sander can take the most boring, mundane thing and make it special, whip up magic out of thin air. At least, Robbe had said, that’s how it felt to him.

“You have,” Sander says, soft, and rolls into his own forearm, body turning to press Robbe into the pillow with a kiss; one slow upwards slide, like a lazy paintstroke. He doesn’t move much, or use his tongue, he just holds it there, exhaling through his nose against Robbe’s skin.

For the next ten minutes or so they’re mostly quiet, paying closer attention to the film and making comments here and there. Sander feels himself unwinding, bit by bit. He swirls his fingers into the silken dip of Robbe’s lower back, thinking.

“Biggest fear,” he says. “First thing that comes to mind, go.”

The half of his Robbe’s face that Sander can see creases up in thought. “Oof, that’s a big one. Just…” he shrugs one shoulder, voice lowering a little, “the future, I guess. Change.”

He pauses for a moment before continuing, rolling his weight onto his back. “That you’ll get bored of me. Find someone cooler.”

He laughs as he says it, like he’s already dismissed the idea, his voice just a touch too light for Sander to believe it. 

“You think I could?” Sander says carefully.

Robbe’s brow falls flat in a _duh_ look. “Please. Any one of those guys at your school would jump you in a second.” Robbe clicks his fingers, lets his hand thump down on the bed by his hip. He swallows as he looks upwards, not quite able to meet Sander’s eye.

They’ve been over this a few times, but only briefly, casually. Even when Robbe feels safest, his insecurities have a way of creeping up on him. It’s never a big deal, doesn’t take much for Sander to smooth them out - just a simple look, a touch or a kiss can make the difference, but it doesn’t always last as long as Sander would like. He lets out a breath as he watches Robbe, decides on a different approach. 

“I did think about it,” he says. “Once.”

Robbe’s face twitches, eyes snapping over to him. He quickly cocks a brow and nods, trying his best to recover but Sander can already see he’s rattled. 

“Oh yeah?”

“Yep,” Sander says simply. 

The teasing look flickers from Robbe’s face, brow dropping slowly, mouth closing. It’s like watching the curtains close on his expression.

“What,” he says, on a nervous flutter of laughter. 

“Hmm,” Sander nods, pushing up his bottom lip. “I thought about what it would take, y’know, to tempt me.” He puts the word tempt in lazy air quotes.

“And?” Robbe prompts, voice barely audible.

“And,” Sander shrugs as he pretends to think, and for a second Robbe pales like he’s actually going to throw up, “Bowie.”

Robbe blinks. “Huh?”

“Bowie,” he repeats, clearly. “1974 Bowie. The Diamond Dogs tour. If anyone would even have a chance, it’d be him.”

Gobsmacked, Robbe just gapes, and Sander keeps going, arm behind his head, chatting away up at the ceiling as if it’s all very casual. “And even then, when I really thought about it, at _most_ I’d be able to just, I dunno, make out for a bit.” He frowns, twists his mouth off to one side. “But then I’d probably just start crying and spend the rest of the night telling him about you.”

Robbe watches him with a baffled flicker of a smile. “Sander…”

“I’m serious,” Sander mimes holding his phone, swiping his finger through the air, “just like, showing him all my photos of you, gushing about your eyes, your smile, the little freckles on your-”

A soft shove cuts him off for the second time that night; Robbe hitting his limit. 

“Ok, ok, ok,” he tries, but Sander ploughs on.

“No I mean it, not even any hand stuff, not even over the clothes. Do you know how crazy that is? This is a guy I’ve have a _lot_ of fantasies about.”

Sander makes a ridiculous face, brows shooting up to his hairline, and watches with total delight as Robbe ducks his head and blushes, point firmly taken. 

“That's sweet,” he mumbles, something like relief sending a waver through his voice. 

Sander shifts, resettles his head sideways in the cradle of his arm. “Did I freak you out? I didn’t mean to.”

Robbe waves it off, biting down on his lip and shaking his head as if to say _forget about it_ , but Sander frowns at him. 

“Y’know, it’s crazy to me that you’d even think that. I wish you could be in my head for a second - well wait actually I wouldn’t wish that on anyone-”

“Sander,” Robbe’s tone is soft, warning, “Don’t say tha-”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t say stuff like that, I know,” Sander sighs, long-suffering, but he moves his arm from behind Robbe’s neck, brings it down to wrap around his waist and give him a little squeeze. He sniffs, quiet for a moment. “You could take a brief trip? A very short stay, check in, check out. You’d see pretty quickly it’s mostly just you in there.”

Robbe starts to shake against his side, giggling quietly. He lifts his head to look up at Sander, mouth open and hair sticking out everywhere. “There’s a hotel now?”

“Yep,” Sander nods, with a definitive tug on the waistband of Robbe’s joggers. “Actually no, not a hotel. The Robbe B&B.”

Robbe’s face falls, head dropping down onto Sander’s chest. “Ugh. That’s the scariest thing you’ve said all day.”

Sander just laughs, his voice hoarse by now and well-worn, head lolling sideways on the pillow. He tugs Robbe up to lie on top of him, slips his palms under his shirt and runs them up and down his back soothingly. Robbe works his own hand up under Sander’s hoodie and rests it there, nails scratching lightly against his stomach.

“And what about you, then?” Robbe says, muffled. 

“Me?” Sander _hmms_ , index finger twirling around one large unruly curl, right on the top of Robbe’s head. “Pâté. Those shitty little pencils you get in dentist receptions. Really old sharks-”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Nah serious, y’know those ones that are blind at the bottom of the ocean, hundreds of years old and covered in barnacles and shit? Horrifying.”

Robbe’s giggling again, and Sander can feel the ripple of it spilling all the way down the front of his body. He tucks in his chin and smiles down at him, but it’s close-lipped, slightly strained. 

“Uhm. Not being able to touch you again, like in lockdown. Or not being able to see you at all, something taking you away from me. Or, I dunno, maybe taking me away from you.”

With a small noise, Robbe wriggles further up his body and folds his hands over Sander’s chest, just beneath his collarbone. He props his chin on the back of them and makes a puzzled face. “How d’you mean?”

Sander shrugs, tugs again on that big curl that’s now fallen into Robbe’s eyes. “I had recurring nightmare, for years actually before I was diagnosed. It’s pretty creepy now I think of it…” he trails off, throat clicking as he swallows. “I guess it was sort of like an abduction. And I was me but I was also watching from the outside, y’know one of those ones?”

Robbe nods against his hands.

“Yeah, it was fucked up,” Sander continues, blowing out a weak laugh. “Like I could see myself caught in this big beam, being sucked upwards, but I couldn’t get out of it.”

His heartbeat trips a little as he pictures it - his tiny, limp, human body floating up and spinning off into space, utterly adrift, nothing and no one able to pull him back down. It’s the simplest way he’s ever had to describe an episode; gravity pulling away from him.

“That’s when the Bowie thing started,” he goes on, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with the side of one finger. “My therapist says it was a way for me to spin that feeling into something more comforting, or positive or whatever. Like if I did drift too far,” he takes a big breath and holds it for a moment, suddenly embarrassed, presses his lips together with his eyes wide and unfocused on some spot on the wall past Robbe’s head. “He might come by and find me. Y’know. Hitch a ride home in the tin can.” 

When he finally musters the courage to look back at Robbe, his face is soft and open, eyes darting back and forth, and Sander can feel his brain whirring, trying to land on the best thing to say. Then, bending forward, he stamps one neat kiss right in the centre of Sander’s sternum. He readjusts his head, lays his cheek to Sander’s chest and nuzzles, like he’s trying to bury his way in there, and Sander’s fingers card gently through his hair. He picks out a stray helicopter seed and flicks it away.

Robbe snorts against his chest, apparently having found the words.

“That’s pretty freaky, man,” he says, in what’s possibly the worst Bowie impression Sander’s ever heard, and Sander’s possessed with such a fervent rush of love for him he feels like he could hover up off the bed, take Robbe with him.

“So,” Robbe says after a pause, propping his head up again with a cheeky look. “Spaceman for Halloween, then?”

“Nope.”

“Sander. You’re gonna have to decide.”

Suddenly Robbe pushes himself upwards, on a mission, elbows digging into Sander’s chest as he rises up onto his knees.

Sander grimaces and lets out a grunt. “Ow. What the hell’re you-”

He’s cut short by Robbe wrenching the white bedsheet out from under them, throwing it around his head as he looms above him.

“Just do this!” he beams, delighted with himself, and Sander’s laughter punches out of him. “It’s a fucking classic.”

Robbe tumbles forward again, hands braced either side of Sander’s head, letting the sheet flutter down around them until they’re totally cocooned. He peers in at him intently and bumps their noses together, just the once.

“Boo.”

Eyes watering, Sander grins up at him, grabs the back of his neck and hauls him down for a kiss. It’s a little clumsy, Sander still laughing into it as Robbe’s knees squeeze tightly at his sides.

“I'd haunt the hell out of you,” he breathes when they break apart, one hand held to Robbe's cheek.

“You would?” Robbe tilts his head, curious - pushing again, testing the boundaries of Sander’s worship.

“Oh yeah,” he says, yielding, bringing his other hand up to cradle Robbe’s head like something holy. “I told you before, IJzermans, you’re not getting rid of me.”

A satisfied flush takes Robbe’s face as soon as the words leave his mouth, and Sander can feel it under his palms; the sudden, feverish warmth flooding his cheeks. 

“Ok by me,” Robbe says quietly, dropping down to kiss him again.

This time Sander wraps both arms around his waist and flips them over, pins him to the mattress as he opens Robbe’s mouth under his, licking in deep and steady, knitting their fingers together as Robbe sighs and arches up against him. When Robbe’s hips start moving with more rhythm, Sander breaks the kiss with a wet noise, rests his forehead on Robbe’s still-warm cheek. 

“We really have to be quiet,” he sighs, and Robbe makes a soft noise of protest. Sander snorts, squeezes his fingers around Robbe’s. “And that’s why. Can’t trust you not to scream the house down like a banshee.”

He gets a swift dig to the ribs for that one, Robbe doing more damage with his bony knee that someone his size should be able to. Sander quickly gets him back, unlaces his hands to pinch the tender spots either side of his waist, digging his thumbs in and grinning smugly as Robbe’s body jerks beneath him. They go at each other for a few minutes, laughing and rolling around as quietly as they can, though his grunt is on the edge of too-loud when Robbe clocks him soundly in the face with a pillow. They call a truce before long and flop back down together, side by side on the mattress. 

“Honestly?” Sander says when he’s caught his breath. “I was thinking of being Kate Bush.”

“Oh. Ok.” Robbe says slowly, his face a complete blank, and Sander smirks as he rolls over to grab his phone from the bedside table. 

He thumbs the screen quickly and pulls up the Wuthering Heights video, holds it between them as it plays, and Robbe scoots in closer. He starts laughing about ten seconds in as she begins to prance around the forest in a flowing red robe, a delighted spark of realisation in his eyes as he catches Sander’s meaning.

“I could pull that off, right?” Sander prompts, smile growing as he angles the phone closer, and Robbe nods encouragingly. He props his head up in one hand, looks warmly down at Sander as Kate wails away between them and flings herself around in a circle. 

“Definitely.”

Sander lets his phone fall to one side, smile fading as looks up at the ceiling in thought. 

“I've, uh,” he passes a hand across his forehead, kneads at the space between his brows with his middle and ring finger. "I've got something that would suit but it would need to be reworked. It’s probably too much hassle.”

Sander pushes his tongue against his back molar, jaw jutting to one side as he contemplates it. Then, with one deep breath, he pushes himself up off the bed and pads over to his closet. 

His stomach gives a small lurch when he opens it. He flips through a few outfits until he finds what he’s searching for, stands there looking in at it with one hand on the door.

“What’s wrong,” Robbe says, his voice thicker and sleepier now as he rolls onto his back on the bed, head hanging upside down like a bat. “Is there a monster in there?”

Part of Sander wants to say yes. He’s still not sure why he hasn’t gotten rid of the thing, all it does is send him plunging back into that freezing cold December night when he’d scared the absolute shit out of himself and Robbe, almost lost him for good. He remembers more than he’ll ever tell Robbe about that night, still feels the shame curl up his spine everytime he sees a glimpse of that fucking robe, stuffed away behind everything else but still visible at a glance, hanging bright red and pristine, almost cheery.

Without him realising it, Robbe has wandered over to stand at his back; Sander jumps a little when he feels the gentle hand at his shoulder, leans reluctantly off to one side as Robbe peers round him for a better look.

“Oh.”

Sander’s stomach does another backflip, hand curling tighter around the door. He looks up under his lashes to catch Robbe’s reaction, which isn’t much - just a minor wobble, the briefest of flashes across his face. He holds his breath as Robbe reaches out, runs a thumb over the tacky gold lining at the hem.

“I dunno,” Robbe says, quiet. He looks up, big dark eyes trained right on Sander’s, steady and so, so careful, as though he might spook at any second. “I think it’s worth keeping a bit longer. There’s always Christmas, right?”

Looking back down, Robbe rubs the material delicately between his fingers. The tiny quirk at the corner of his mouth is fond, nostalgic, and it nearly buckles Sander in two, sends something shuddering straight down through his chest, like an anvil breaking through floor after floor of that creaking old house. 

If there was a way he could explain that feeling to Robbe in words, not visuals, he would. If he could just come out and say how frighteningly easy it is for Robbe to get straight to the bottom of him, how unfathomable it is - still, even after a year - that someone could ever just delve down and sit so comfortably in his depths. 

And that’s his answer, he realises, that’s what scares him the most. Smothering him, crushing Robbe under all that pressure, all that rubble and rust above his head. The fear leaps off of him, muddies the air, and he tries his best to cover it up but it’s no use, Robbe’s picked up his trail and is following one step behind, dogged and stubborn as always. 

He takes one step closer. “Sander?”

“Hmm,” is about all Sander can manage. He tries to twitch the corners of his mouth into life, tries to fix his face back into place, but it just slips down again.

“You remember what I told you earlier?”

Sander nods, not sure if he can hold himself together if Robbe says it out loud again. He hears himself make a wet, pained little noise as Robbe says it anyway.

“You can’t scare me. I’m not going anywhere.” 

With a careful hand at his jaw, Robbe directs his gaze downwards. Sander looks down at his feet, firm and solid on the ground in between Robbe’s, watches the two of them blur together as his eyes water, and Robbe finishes, “Neither are you.”

Sander clenches his jaw and nods again, his head still bowed. He blinks to clear his eyes as Robbe’s lips brush his forehead, and decides that he’s gonna explain that feeling to Robbe in visuals anyway, someday soon, on the biggest goddamn wall he can find. 

For now, he bunches his hands in Robbe’s shirt, breathes, “C’mere,” and kisses him. Robbe’s arms jump up to wind around his neck and they stumble backwards, falling against racks of Sander’s clothes; every odd thing he’s been given over the years, every shirt he’s shared with Robbe, every fleeting phase he’s gone through, every person he’s ever been and costume he’s ever worn.

One or both of them trip, sending them lurching deeper, almost to the very back. The hangers squeak and Robbe laughs against his mouth, folded in warm and alive at the centre of it all.

*

**Author's Note:**

> I googled “abandoned old houses antwerp” while writing this and actually got exactly what I was picturing, so if anyone’s interested it's Chateau Nottebohm about an hour outside of Antwerp by bike. you can see urbexers scoping it out on youtube somewhere, though I took some liberty with the layout etc.
> 
> also like I mentioned, it takes a looong time for me to write anything I’m even remotely happy with, so if you read and enjoyed any of this please don’t be shy! come say hi and let me know what you thought, cos it’d literally make my life x


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